The Unwashed

Rumbles of boredom lead me to eat but then there are the unwashed, the residue of the crumbling and smeared. Greasy utensils sneaking like sharks amongst the soaking dishes. We need to refresh this pond with chemical bubbles yet hands are too dilatory to be daubed by yesterday’s food. One has to judge with perfect timing whether to wash the plates or leave them to poison the sink for another hour or two. The essential factors are smell and guilt. When the sludge of the once edible blossoms rudely in your sink, or the shredded rinds of a latent rigor mortis coat themselves with the pimpled oils of a nibbling fungus, only then is it time to reassess just how peckish you are for leftovers.